


the ordinary world

by nilchance



Series: ain't this the life [19]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Fingerfucking, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Soul Sex, Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Underfell Sans (Undertale), eventual spicykustard, kustard - Freeform, offscreen fellcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-14 00:08:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17497919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/pseuds/nilchance
Summary: There's a weird kind of comfort in the fact that Red is still completely obnoxious.





	the ordinary world

**Author's Note:**

> content warnings in the endnotes

Sans sits at the counter at Grillby’s, feeling much better about life. 

His hands and arms are still damp from a couple hours washing dishes, for which Grillby kindly paid him 50g under the table just like old times. Baby steps towards a nine hour shift at the call center telling people to turn things off and on. He’s wiped out from that little bit of effort, but it’s a good tired. The pain is quieter, easy enough to ignore. So is that fraction of a second he tenses every time the bar door opens. He’s pretty sure Grillby’s noticed him flinching by now, especially considering that Sans always immediately checks the mirrored barback to see who walked in. Grillby doesn’t mention it. He lived through the war. He knows how it is.

It’s nice to be back. Sans was kinda worried that he’d have to deal with a lot of questions and had one eye on the fire door, but nobody’s asked. The dogs all gave him a thorough smell check and he got an extremely awkward, sniffly hug from Drunk Bunny, and that was it. They’re giving him space. It’s weird to remember that as much as he knows how these people tick, these people know him too. And they keep trying to buy him lunch. He’s accepted a few times. Y’know. Just to make them feel better.

The door opens again, letting in the afternoon light. Before Sans can even look up, he hears Drunk Bunny cry, “Well, there’s my baby bunny!”

It’s a familiar refrain. Drunk Bunny has said it for years, every time her nephew comes to collect her at the end of the night. Al is her favorite, after all.

Sans freezes. It’s the only thing he can do. He can’t move to run and he has no shortcuts. There is a ringing noise in his skull like after his soul cracked. He can barely hear Al groan, “Aunt Daisy,” over it. He sits there very still, waiting to see if his soul is going to break again. It should hurt more, shouldn’t it? This should hurt. It should leave a mark.

Al was on his knees in the snow, his back to Sans, and Sans burned him to death in front of his sister like it was nothing. If these people only knew what he was--

Why doesn’t it hurt?

Sans manages to move after all. It’s a miracle. His body feels weirdly distant, like it belongs to somebody else who just left it on a curb somewhere for an irresponsible murderer to take for a joyride. He leaves. Just fucking walks out. He can hear somebody asking him a question but he couldn’t say what it was, all the words only meaningless sounds. The door closes behind him. No one follows. He might risk a shortcut if they had.

The world is a blur around him. People are too tall and too close, crowding out all of the air. It’s too much. He doesn’t know if he’s far enough from Grillby’s yet, he doesn’t know what far enough would be, but he ducks into an alley. Its only selling point is being empty. He’s in his element.

He puts his back against the wall and feels a little safer. Now that the reminder of what he's done isn't right in front of him, that brittle, protective numbness starts to melt away. His hands are shaking.

He knew this was coming sooner or later. Couldn't hide from it forever. It’s over now. He’s fine. Stop.

Dust scattered across the snow. Clover's scream of grief.

Fuck, he misses having a shortcut. He wants to be home. He's too exposed out here where people could stumble across him hyperventilating in an alley. He wants that elusive feeling of safety, the comfortable lie he found tucked between Edge and Red. Or sleeping with the collar in his hand--

The collar that's in his inventory.

He's breathing too quick, sucking ragged breaths that somebody could probably hear from the street. He needs to calm the fuck down. If he spins all the way out of control, he'll never get it back. He’ll just lose his mind here in this alley. They’ll find him laughing like he did with Unundyne’s hands around his throat, that unsettling helpless laugh, and this time he won’t be able to stop.

He pulls the collar out of his inventory and curls his fingers tight around it, the buckle digging into his metacarpals. That protective intent drops onto him like a blanket fresh from the dryer. He clutches the collar to his chest, above his soul, and tries to breathe.

Keep it together. It's over. No one's trying to hurt him anymore. It's okay. He's okay.

Sans lets his head drop back against the alley wall and closes his eyes. Concentrates on his breathing. The collar pulses in his fingers like a living thing, like it feels his panic. Fuck, he hopes this thing isn't two-way; he really doesn't need to be paging Edge across town with regular updates on his anxiety attacks.

It can’t last forever. He doesn’t have the stamina. Eventually, his breathing starts to slow. The pinpoints of light behind his closed eyelids die down. There's sweat running down his face, his shirt sticking to him under his hoodie, and he feels like a wrung-out dish towel, but the worst of it seems to be over.

Red's right. Trauma's a bitch.

The world trickles back in. He realizes that this alley smells terrible and that he’s petting the collar with his thumb like he’d rub the dog’s ear between his fingers. It’s soft, like Edge’s jacket. Soothing to touch. He concentrates on that for a few minutes and tries to remember how to be a person.

A few minutes later, somewhere down the street, a church bell tolls the hour. One of those weird human rituals. It reminds him that he’s supposed to be getting on a bus soon, headed for the embassy. It’s tempting to just say ‘fuck it’ and take one home instead. But Edge is taking this whole responsible kink thing seriously and he’ll be freaked about sub drop if Sans doesn’t show. Freaked enough to track Sans down, maybe.

Besides, he wants to see the guy. Maybe it’s the last of that need to be close to him from last night, a weird psychological side effect. Sans isn’t used to this stuff, at least from this side. That thing that Edge said last night about the thrill of Sans putting himself in his hands... yeah, Sans finally gets it. Isn’t that why he kept fucking random people in storage closets, knowing the only thing he’d get out of it was the satisfaction of getting them off? Isn’t that why most of the time he didn’t even let them get a hand on his junk, because that wasn’t the point? Doing well by someone was the point. Even if he couldn’t control his own life, he could control that. He was good at it. Some people paint for stress relief. Sans gives handjobs. Same risk of carpal tunnel.

Or hell, maybe wanting to be near Edge has nothing to do with what happened last night. It’s not like he doesn’t enjoy Edge’s company. He’s funny and comforting in his own blunt way. Better not to overthink it and just go.

Which is going to require him putting the collar back in his inventory at some point instead of clutching it to his chest like a little kid with a binkie.

Yep.

He shoves his hands in his pockets, still holding the collar. It’s basically the same thing as putting it in his inventory. It’s not visible or anything. He’s just gotta remember to take the collar out when he gets home. It’s not like he’s _wearing_ the fucking thing. Not a big deal.

(Probably a big deal.)

He goes to the bus stop and gets on without incident. Most of the people on it won’t quite look at him, probably because he’s covered in sweat and still wild-eyed like somebody on a bad trip. A little human kid turns all the way around in their seat to gawk at him with wide, bright eyes. They look a bit old for the whole ‘cross eyes, stick out tongue, make the kid laugh’ routine. He’s better with kids before they get old enough to talk.

He pulls a quarter out of his pocket, the one without the collar, and walks it across his knuckles. The kid blinks, then grins, showing a gap between their teeth. So he entertains them both with coin tricks for the twenty minutes it takes to get to the embassy, making the quarter disappear and reappear, cheating shamelessly with magic. By the time they get to his destination, he’s almost calmed all the way down. He holds up the quarter, then flips it to the kid, nudging it with gravity magic to make sure it gets to their grubby little hand, and makes his exit. Better to end with the audience laughing.

Edge is waiting at the bench. His eyelights sharpen when he sees Sans. Sans doesn’t walk faster. He doesn’t hurry for anybody.

As soon as he’s in earshot, Edge says in a neutral tone, “You didn’t call me.”

It’s not a rebuke, but it’s also not hard to guess that Edge isn’t happy.

“It’s not sub drop,” Sans says, like he’d even know if it was. He sits down on the bench, hands in his pockets. "I was just fine until about half an hour ago.”

Edge frowns. "Did something happen?"

He doesn't ask if Sans wants somebody killed. It's pretty heavily implied.

Sans almost says it’s not a big deal. But here Edge is, the one who was right there when Sans did it. If there’s one person who would get it...

"Heh. I, uh." Sans stares across the park at nothing. "I ran into that kid I killed over there."

"Kid?" Edge asks. "If you're talking about Al, he's the same age I am. Hardly a child."

Sans knows better than to call Edge a kid. Papyrus gave him a pretty searing lecture on the subject back when he was around 14 and Sans doubts it would go over any better with Edge. He dodges the issue. “Not really the important part of that statement, buddy.”

Edge makes a noncommittal noise that says he thinks it’s relevant but he’s not going to argue about it. It’s a very expressive noise. “No, I suppose not.”

He doesn’t try to say something about how Sans did what he had to to survive, etc., which is ironically more comforting than Edge trying to rationalize it. Red telling him Asgore deserved to die hadn’t helped; it only made Sans feel guilty for feeling guilty in an ouroboros of suck. Edge lets him sit with his fucked up emotions and doesn’t try to change them.

“You ever meet anybody you killed?” Sans asks, eyes still fixed on the entrance to the embassy.

“A few times,” Edge says. “It’s rather awkward, to say the least. Particularly since most of them attacked me or my brother first so I had to restrain myself from eliminating the threat.”

Sans winces. “Yeah, I guess that would make it worse, huh?”

“Not necessarily worse. In those cases, I don’t have to deal with the guilt.” When Sans glances at him, surprised, Edge says tiredly, “I served as a guard under Asgore. You heard about his version of justice and order. Yes, I’ve done things I regret.”

For all Sans was comforted by Edge not making excuses for him, he has to stop himself from saying, _you didn’t have a choice._ As soon as he saw Red, he’d judged him for every murder he’d committed, but Edge is different. Sans wants for it not to be his fault. He’d blamed Edge’s LV on Red too, even though he would’ve said at any judgement that the reasons didn’t ever matter. Sans couldn’t make himself blame him.

It’s different now. He’s seen Edge with dust on his hands, most of which Edge shed trying to keep Sans’s useless ass alive, and Edge has seen him kill. He can’t judge Edge as harshly as he would’ve once but he can’t pretend those deaths on Edge’s ledger were accidents either. It’s complicated.

“That sucks,” Sans says.

“Indeed it does.”

“How do you deal with it?”

“It depends on what you mean by dealing with it,” Edge says. “There’s no forgetting it. I make it a point not to avoid them. If I spend enough time around them, it mostly sinks in that they’re different people and this is a different universe. I can’t punish myself for mistakes I didn’t make here. I have enough to blame myself for as it is.”

“Does that work?”

“Has ignoring your problems worked out particularly well for you in the past?” Edge counters.

“Ouch,” Sans says. “Okay, touche. I’ll think about it.”

“You asked for my advice. You’re under no obligation to take it.” Edge shifts his weight on the bench. “It upset you to see him.”

This is threatening to turn into another extended round of talking about his emotions. Time to pivot. “Doesn’t matter. How’s stuff at the embassy--”

“I’m given to understand that it’s traditional in this universe to offer hugs when people are upset,” Edge says. His voice is very carefully even and he’s looking straight ahead like the buildings across the street are about to pull a knife on him.

Nobody should have to offer hugs like they’re defusing a bomb. Edge tenses and then melts whenever Sans touches him. Red takes the excuse of the afterglow to get a little safe physical contact in. They both make him wish Asgore was alive just so he could give the bastard one good punch in the face in before getting slaughtered because man, did Fluffybuns the Impaler screw the pooch. Sans doesn’t have the right to decide who deserves to live but he’s pretty comfortable saying Asgore deserved a broken nose.

“Been reading our version of the relationship manual?” Sans asks, just as casual. No big deal.

“Yes,” Edge says. “And talking to the human. It’s been very enlightening.”

Great, so Edge is going to start solving a lot of his problems by flirting with them. That should be hilarious. Frisk can teach him the patented ‘bad pickup line, fingerguns and a wink’ technique.

“The whole hug thing is a pretty standard operating procedure in that case, yeah,” Sans says.

Edge gives him a sidelong glance. “Do you want one?”

Sans’s soul does something painful in his chest that has nothing to do with the cracks, all sharp and sweet. He holds his arms open. “Bring it in, dude.”

It’s a surprisingly good hug for all that Edge doesn’t have a lot of practice. When he first puts his arms around Sans, there’s almost no pressure, like he thinks Sans’s bones are as fragile as an eggshell. (Like he’s handling something precious.) But when Sans leans into him and squeezes gently, demonstrating proper technique, Edge’s arms tighten a little. His hands rest gingerly on Sans’s back like he’s not sure where to put them. The scent of that fancy soap is stronger now that Edge hasn’t been sloshing through Murderland. Although Sans’s normal soap comes from the dollar store in a six pack so he’s maybe not the best judge of relative soap fanciness. If it bothers Edge that Sans smells like dishwater and acrid fear sweat, he doesn’t let on.

It’s been a crappy day. That’s Sans’s only excuse for letting the hug stretch out past the standard hug duration. One second it’s a hug and the next Edge is just holding him, Sans’s eyes closed and his brow pressed against Edge’s ribs, his hands knotted in the back of Edge’s jacket as he tries to breathe steadily.

Edge has a crush. It’s not fair to do this to him. That’s the only thing that jars Sans back to relative sanity. He pulls back and Edge immediately lets him go. Sans chuckles awkwardly and averts his eyes from whatever expression is on Edge’s face. “Hey, you’re picking up on that pretty quick.”

“I seem to be getting a great deal of experience lately,” Edge says.

“Heh. Yeah, sorry about that,” Sans says. “If you want me to stop--”

“No,” Edge says simply. “Sans?”

That’s the kind of sincere tone that means Sans should continue staring into the middle distance. He does. “What?”

“Horrible things happened. That can’t be fixed in a week. No one’s expecting you to go back to what you were like nothing changed.”

Sans leans back against the bench beside Edge. His hand slides into his pocket, finding the collar. A little more bitterly than he intends to, he says, “I was there three days. I’m a tourist. I don’t get to bitch about it.”

“This isn’t some kind of competition,” Edge says. “You’re right. You didn’t live there, which means you weren’t prepared for it. And it was a bad three days even by my standards.”

Sans glances at him. Edge isn’t lying. “Yeah?”

“Getting betrayed and drugged by a friend and then having to fight my way through Hotland and New Home before the king executed you was more dramatic than a usual workday, yes,” Edge says.

“Well, when you put it like that.” Sans considers for several moments whether to open his mouth before he says, “How are you doing with that, by the way?" 

Edge gives him exactly the stonefaced look Sans expected. He's not Papyrus, but damned if he doesn't have that same tendency to focus on how other people are doing to avoid the fact that he's not feeling so great himself. "You're changing the subject."

And Edge is dodging the question, but Sans isn't going to bring that up. He approaches at a different angle. "I’m sorry about Undyne.”

Edge shakes his head, his mouth a hard line. With finality, he says, “She made her choice. I made mine.”

Like it’s simple. Sans saw it in Edge’s eyes; if she hadn’t put Sans down, Edge would have killed her. But he lost her either way and he’s grieving her now because he decided to choose Sans over someone he’d considered his family for years. It’s messy as hell, and here Sans and Red are, conspiring to make sure Edge doesn’t get a chance to see her again for a long time.

Sans doesn’t get why Edge chose him. He doesn’t get why Edge wants him so much, but it’s this huge and overwhelming thing they talk around. Now would be a really great time to say something about it. He should let Edge down gently. Not that Edge hasn’t backed way off already since they got back because he’s a good guy, one who tries so damned hard and gives great hugs and deserves much, much better than Sans.

But fuck, it’s already been a hard day. It’s not like he’s going to break the guy’s heart, but still, Sans has the collar in his hand and feels its intent. It’d hurt. Fuck knows Edge is right about ignoring things not being a good tactic but… later. Sans’ll let Red know he’s going to do it so Edge has somebody to fall back on, for all the comfort Red’ll be.

Instead of all the things he should say, Sans says, “Hey, by the way, thanks for coming after me.”

Edge frowns at him. “What else was I supposed to do?”

Sans shrugs. “Not fight your way across enemy territory so you can kill a LV 18 king when I was probably already dead?”

Edge gives him a look that says very clearly, _I’m attracted to you but you are so fucking stupid sometimes._ “Do you really think I’m the kind of person who would do that?”

“Nope,” Sans says. “I’m thanking you for not being the kind of person who would do that.”

“You’re rather liberal with your thanks.”

“And you’re kinda liberal with giving me reasons to say it, buddy. ‘S not my fault you’re awesome.”

It’s not hard to notice that Edge hasn’t gotten a lot of genuine compliments in his life. It takes a moment to compute, and then Edge looks… softer. Like the person he might be after another couple of years here where people aren’t constantly trying to kill him. Somebody who might eventually be happy. It’s a good look on him. Sans hopes Red appreciates it.

Edge clears his throat and looks away. Gruffly, he says, “Do you want a ride home?”

“Nah. I could use the fresh air. I’m working on my tan.” Edge actually rolls his eyes. Victory. Sans grins at him. “Does that mean you got another couple minutes to hang out? We could talk about stuff that’s not brutally depressing.”

“I can spare a few more minutes if you’d like,” Edge says, looking pleased. “That reminds me. I have something for you.”

The last thing Edge gave him is a solid weight in Sans’s pocket. A little wary, he says, “And it’s not even my birthday.”

“No, that’d be February 29th, I believe,” Edge says. “Which conveniently allows you to try to avoid the hassle three years out of four.”

“Sure,” Sans says. “One of the handy-dandy benefits of not actually knowing when I was born. Why do you think I picked it?”

“For the same reasons my brother did, I imagine. But now that you’ve confirmed the date, I’ll keep it in mind.”

Well, that’s needlessly ominous, and Sans is pretty sure telling Edge not to get him anything is gonna go over as well as it does with Papyrus or Frisk. This whole thing where people care about him is weird. Not one to be one-upped, Sans says, “How about you?”

“The day before Gyftmas, same as Papyrus,” Edge says with a dismissive gesture. Then his mouth does something funny, between a smile and a wince. “He picked it so I could believe the celebration was for me, when I was very young and stupid.”

That’s unexpectedly sweet of Red. Kind of gives Sans a pang to think that there was a time that Red used to actually try.

“That wasn’t the whole reason,” Sans says. “I mean, when I picked it for Paps, anyway. I dunno about Red. Who knows how that guy thinks.”

Edge looks at him. “Enlighten me.”

Sans shrugs. “Look, don’t tell Paps I said this because it’s kind of soppy and embarrassing, but, uh, he was the gift. Y’know. From our parents or the universe or whatever. I didn’t need anything else.”

Edge stares at him like Sans slapped him, stunned, barely even breathing. Then he shakes his head. There’s a wistfulness in his expression that hurts to look at. “I don’t think my brother has ever been that sentimental.”

Considering why Edge just said Red picked Gyftmas Eve… but no, that’s a pretty fair assessment. Edge knows Red better than Sans does, for all that they’re the same person, and Sans really doesn’t know how a seven year old Red’s mind worked. If Red ever thought of Edge as a gift, he probably immediately smacked himself in the face for being that soft and squishy. Hell, maybe that’s how he lost the tooth.

“I wouldn’t know,” Sans says. “Ignore me. I talk a lot of shit. What’d you bring me?”

Edge pulls a key from his inventory, already on a keychain that has Red’s aesthetic written all over it. When Sans warily takes it, Edge says, “Red is in and out of the house all day. Considering our weekly… appointment, I thought it might be a good idea for you to be able to let yourself in.”

It’s Sans’s turn to stare at him. As much of a paranoid bastard as Red is, Edge is worse. The guy is in charge for assessing potential security threats to the king for a reason, because he sees dangers that a monster from Sans’s universe might dismiss as harmless. But he’s giving Sans access to the place where he sleeps, where _Red_ sleeps, and okay, Sans could’ve teleported in and attacked them at any time before now but an actual key is different. A key implies that Sans is allowed to be there alone, unsupervised, because they trust him.

A key implies he has a place there.

“Uh,” Sans says stupidly, because some part of him is already up on his feet, across the park, gone. He’s been gambling every time he complimented Edge just to watch him light up, every time he didn’t put the collar in the bottom of a drawer somewhere, every time he took a step closer to them because he thought he could still get away clean if he had to, and now he’s realized he’s been betting too high and the universal dealer has been playing with a loaded deck all along. “I don’t know what to do with this.”

Edge, who’s been watching him scream internally for the last twenty seconds, almost smiles. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back.”

Then Edge gives him a kindly pat on the shoulder, gets up and walks away. Maybe it’s revenge for that time Sans noped out on him mid-conversation after realizing Edge wanted to fuck him. Maybe it’s just that the fondness for dramatic exits is an inherent part of being a skeleton. Either way, Edge leaves him there staring at his back.

Finally, when he’s lost Edge through the embassy doors, Sans says to no one, “Okay, I walked into that one.”

He’s overthinking it. Edge made a joke, so it’s not a huge deal. Absolutely no need to freak out over it because of his commitment issues. He is a laid back, chill person. Everybody says so. Except Red, but honestly, fuck Red.

Which gives him an excellent idea. Some cheap and meaningless sex always puts him back on solid ground.

And lucky for him, he knows just who to call.

***

Eventually, Sans comes up for air. His face is wet, his tongue heavy in his mouth. Red's leg is still slung over his shoulder. The ragged noise Red made when came for the third time is still ringing in Sans’s ears. It's the best time he's had in weeks.

"Hey," Sans says.

"What?" Red asks, gratifyingly out of breath. His joints are pink, his face flushed and eyelights blown. It's deeply satisfying to see him this way, undone by Sans's mouth. "Finally decided you're gonna fuck me?"

Not an unattractive idea, since his pelvis is hot with unformed magic, but no. Not yet. Sans says, "You said you'd touch your soul for me. That offer still on the table?"

He wants Red absolutely wrecked. He needs to get Red back for riding him through the mattress. Why not make Red do some of the work himself while Sans gives his jaw a break for a minute? That's just efficiency.

Red blinks fuzzily at him. Then he grins, all serrated teeth and smug delight. "Curious, huh?"

Maybe. It's probably one of those things, like incest and pain, that turns Red's crank but leaves him cold. That's fine. Considering how often Red cheats to turn things around on Sans and overwhelm him, Sans has to use all the unfair advantages he can get. Plus hey, even if the soul thing doesn't do it for him, watching Red enjoy himself is plenty of fun.

Sans shrugs. "Figured I'd make you do some of the work this time."

"Lazy bastard." Red pats the mattress beside him. "If I'm gonna put on a show, you might as well get a good view, you fucking perv."

Big words from someone who was a shameless voyeur while Sans got his soul healed, but whatever. Sans is doing his best not to think about that. His mind cringes from the memory, insistent that he'd done something embarrassing. Which is pretty impressive given that he's got no shame, at least as far as the 'did a comedy act and not one single person laughed' kind of shame goes.

When Sans stretches out beside him, Red rolls onto his side. It puts them face to face, close enough to kiss. If Sans wasn't a judge, maybe he wouldn't see Red hesitate for a fraction of a second. Before Sans can say it's okay, Red doesn't have to, he gets it, Red draws his soul out. It's different to see it like this instead of safely enclosed behind Red's ribs. It looks small and vulnerable, which is a strange thing to think about anything pertaining to Red, who's all _fuck you_ spiteful bravado.

Sans may have made a critical mistake here re: not making things weird. But Red had been the one to offer, hadn't he? Besides, it's not like Red hasn't seen his soul up close and personal.

"You done gawking?" Red asks.

Busted. Guiltily, Sans meets Red's eyes. "I mean, I'm gonna watch you jerk off with it, so no, probably not."

"Eh. That's fair." Red closes his fingers around the soul. He's gentler with it than Sans usually is with his own. It flutters in his hand, scarred and radiating a fragile light. Red starts to raise his other hand to his mouth, then grins wickedly and brings it to Sans's instead. "Here. Put that mouth of yours to good use. It's better when it's wet."

"Now who's a lazy bastard?" Sans asks, but he lets Red slip two fingers past his teeth. He lathes them with his tongue, getting them wet with generous amounts of spit. Red watches him through half-lidded eyes, the kind of look that makes Sans want to say fuck it and just go back to the tried-and-true method of eating Red out.

Finally, Red reclaims his fingers. When he first touches them to his soul, tracing one of the uglier scars, his breath catches in his throat. Red's eyes focus on him. The second stroke is bolder, running from the cleft of the soul down to the point, which Red lingers to circle with the tip of his finger.

"See?” Red asks, his voice full of uncomplicated pleasure. “It’s good. Doesn’t hurt.”

“Sure, rub it in,” Sans says.

Red snorts and presses his fingers in a little harder, shuddering in reaction. “What d’you think I’m doing?”

It’s hard to choose what to watch, Red’s expression or the slow slide of his fingers across the surface of his soul. Sans remembers comparing touching souls to licking elbows, but he can see the appeal now. Red makes it into utter pornography, his breathing getting heavier as he gets into it, his eyes fixed on Sans’s face. His fingers are still aimless as he touches himself, taking his time, probably still worn out from the last time Sans made him come.

“You like this?” Red murmurs, because he might die if he doesn’t get his daily dose of bad dirty talk. 

“It’s all right, I guess,” Sans says, his voice a little rough. “Keep going.”

Another slow shiver rolls through Red. He does what Sans tells him to, his movements more purposeful now. His fingers aren’t getting dry; if anything, they move more easily. His soul is getting slick with a clear, silvery fluid, just like--

Like Sans’s does while Edge heals it.

Oh fuck.

“What?” Red asks, pausing to stare at Sans’s face. Then he glances down at his soul and snorts. “Oh yeah. That happens.”

“I thought soul-touching wasn’t supposed to be a sex thing!” Sans says.

“It isn’t,” Red says, like Sans is being the completely irrational one here. “This just happens when there’s friction. Keeps the soul from getting irritated. It’s not necessarily like getting wet or whatever--”

“Fuck off,” Sans groans, putting a hand over his eyes.

“Y’know, your body’s going through a lot of changes.” When Sans starts to get up, Red catches him by the elbow. His fingers are wet against Sans’s bones. “Hey, it’s fine. It’s normal. Alphys- my Alphys, I mean- did some checkups after I Fell. Same thing happened when she touched it with gloves on, and I can’t get it up for her. Seriously. We tried once back when we worked together, it was a goddamn disaster.”

That’s worth lowering his hand to glare at Red. “You tried to fuck _Alphys_? Why the hell would you do that to her?”

“We were drunk and horny,” Red says defensively. “Look, I said it was a disaster. She’s like--”

Red trails off. Sans asks, “Were you gonna say your sister? Because that wouldn’t really be a dealbreaker for you.”

“She’s my friend, all right?” Red says, like he’s admitting some deep and shameful secret. “Are you done freaking out? Should I put my soul back or what?”

Sans glances down at Red’s soul, shiny-wet and glowing a little brighter like the magic between his joints. He thinks of the look on Red’s face when he touched it, and heat pulses dully between his legs. He caves. “What kind of scientist do you think I am? I didn’t tell you to stop..”

“Bossy,” Red says approvingly. He readjusts his grip, taking his soul in both hands, and strokes the cleft of his soul. His thumbs slide between the twin upper curves with a wet noise that makes Sans’s face burn. Red’s eyes close, his back arching as he gasps, “Fuck.”

It’s the end of Sans’s higher thought processes. He lays his hands on Red’s iliac crest, stroking the hot bone, and Red shivers. Sans asks, “You want me to touch you?”

Red opens his eyes. “You mean my soul?”

The terrifying thing is that he doesn’t sound pissed off that Sans would ask. A little guarded, but he sounds more curious than anything.

Quickly, Sans says, “What? No. I meant your junk. I wouldn’t ask you if I could-- no. I mean, Edge said not to.”

Smooth.

“Heh.” Red grins crookedly. “Nah. This’ll get me off. Might be nice to have something to watch while I do it, though.”

“That’s taking your weird thing for Carl Sagan a little far,” Sans says. “Is it the turtlenecks?”

Because Sans is such a nice, accommodating guy, he slides his hand between his own legs. It only takes the brush of his fingers across his pubic symphysis to bring his magic surging into shape, his fingertips slipping between the lips of his pussy to bump against his hard clit. He hisses softly, just barely managing not to jerk his hips into his own hand. He was eating Red out for a long time, trying to ignore how turned on he was, and this is really doing it for him: Red’s unsteady breathing, the slick noises of his fingers on his soul, the hazy look on his face as he feels something Sans can only imagine secondhand.

Of course Red notices. He looks deeply pleased with himself. “Nice. C’mon, fuck yourself with your fingers for me.”

Rolling his eyes, Sans readjusts his position and slides a finger into his pussy. It’s immediately not enough, so he adds a second. Better. He shudders, feeling more wetness well up from inside him, slicking the way as he curls his fingers. Red can reach deeper places but even the tease is good right now.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you are the best porno,” Red says fervently. His fingers are moving faster now. Sans can’t help but note the places that Red seems to like best, even if he’s probably never going to be the one touching Red’s soul, useless information burned forever into his brain. “You can take another finger.”

It’s cute that Red thinks he’s taking requests. Sans gives him the finger with his unoccupied hand. “This one?”

Red laughs, a hitching, breathless sound. He’s close. Sans can see it on his face, written in the shivering tension of his body. It looks like a slow pleasure, creeping up on him, building and sharpening with every touch. Somehow Red manages to keep his eyes open, to let Sans see him, and that’s the only reason Sans gives him what he asks. The third finger burns a little and he moans, a ragged noise that Red echoes as he rubs his soul faster.

Then Red cries out, a bright flash of light bursting out of his soul as he comes. Fluid spurts from between Red’s fingers, spattering the bed and his ribs as Red shudders so hard it looks almost painful. The look on his face makes Sans’s body tighten down, like he could come just from watching, a sympathy orgasm. It’s beautiful. In that moment, Red’s beautiful.

Red’s bones are rattling, his fingers still moving on his soul, dragging it out. Sans slides his fingers free so he can rub soothing little circles on Red’s hip. What he wants to do is to pull Red against him because holy shit, that looked intense, but Red’s soul is in between them and Sans isn’t allowed to touch it.

Eventually, Red’s fingers slow and then stop, just resting on the silvery surface of his soul. Sans’s hand flexes on Red’s hip with that frustrated urge to gather him up and maybe get him a snack or something, since it works for Edge, but he settles for asking. “You with me, buddy?”

Red lets out a shaky laugh. “Yeah.” Then his soul pulls out of his hands, wobbling its way back into his chest. It takes its dim light with it, the shadows shifting around them like one of those spinning lamps that cast pictures on the walls. Once it’s gone, Red squirms closer and thumps his brow painfully onto Sans’s shoulder.

“Ow,” Sans says, mostly to humor Red. “You okay? Did you sprain something?”

“You made me come three times before that one,” Red says. “Gimme a minute.”

That’s fair. Sans strokes Red’s neck, careful not to get his wet fingers on the collar. Blue stains might not show on the black leather but it’s better to be sure. “Okay. You, uh, want a snack or something? A juice box?”

A moment of silence before Red says, amused, “A juice box?”

“I thought you were going to black out.”

“That’s _your_ party trick, honey,” Red says. Figures he wouldn’t let that go. “Where were you even going to get a juice box?”

“Tori gave me one to keep in my inventory. The kid gets low blood sugar. Look, do you want it or not?”

“Huh. Y’know, I am pretty thirsty,” Red muses. Then his hand is between Sans’s legs. Sans gives a laugh that subsides into a moan as Red sinks two fingers into him. They go in easy, still wet from Red’s soul. Red crooks his fingers, giving him glorious pressure just where he couldn’t reach. Sans makes a noise deep in his throat, grasping at Red’s shoulder, and Red hums, pleased with his work. “How about I finish what you started?”

“If you--” Red eases a third finger into him and Sans shudders, his voice catching in his throat. “If you’re feeling up to it, I’m not gonna complain.”

“That’s a first.” Red’s thumb finds Sans’s clit, rubbing in steady circles, and Sans tightens involuntarily, making Red’s fingers feel even bigger inside him. “Getting fingered makes you all agreeable.”

“Never mind. I’m gonna complain. I wanna talk to your manag--” Red nuzzles his collarbone, then traces with his tongue the bruise he left behind a few days ago. It feels as hot as a brand. Sans jerks against him, unintentionally rocking himself on Red’s fingers a little.

He feels more than hears the bastard laugh. “My manager, huh? Sure. Lemme just ring up the boss for you. Maybe he can supervise.”

Red’s good with his hands. That’s the only reason Sans’s body seems to pulse. He shoves his hand over Red’s mouth and Red grins at him, his eyelights maliciously amused.

Slowly, Red starts to fuck him with his fingers, a slow slick glide. It feels different than his dick, the bones harder but able to cleverly press against him in all the right ways. Sans can’t even care about how loud it is. Red’s thumb keeps working on his clit in a way that would be plenty enough to get him off by itself, considering how wound up he is. It’s not long before he tenses up and shudders through a long orgasm of his own. It’s sheer relief after what must be an hour of build-up since he first got his mouth on Red, leaving him limp in its wake.

Red’s satisfied noise isn’t quite a purr but it’s close. He presses a kiss to the mark on Sans’s collarbone, then gives him a little nip that makes him jump. Sliding his fingers out, Red wipes them on Sans’s hip and cuddles contentedly against him.

“Thanks,” Sans says dryly.

“No problem,” Red says, obscenely cheerful.

“Didn’t you get enough of this last night?”

“Hey, bitch, you know the rules. If you wanna have sex, you let me enjoy the afterglow in peace.” Red yawns. “Besides, you’re the one who passed out on me.”

Sans puts his arms around Red. Apparently this is his life now. Dealing with the hug deficit of two edgy bastards. Might as well give into the inevitable, the cuddle singularity. “I was high and you were boring.”

“Aw, you sorry I didn’t make out with you in front of the boss?”

Sans winces. “No. Thanks for putting the brakes on. That would’ve been, uh, weird.”

“Can’t say I wasn’t tempted. You looked good like that.” Red runs his hand down Sans’s side, lingering on the arch of the iliac crest. “He sure wouldn’t have minded the show, although he probably wouldn’t have stuck around to watch even if he wanted to. He never could figure out how to get out of his own way. You idiots deserve each other.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Sure it isn’t,” Red says. “Keep flailing around. This is the best entertainment I’ve had in years.”

Sans could try to have an actual discussion about how there’s nothing to be entertained by because there’s nothing going on, but Red would take it as protesting too much. “Whatever. You wanna take a shower?”

“Nope,” Red says decisively. “I just got comfy. You live here now.”

It’s been a long, confusing day. At least Red being completely obnoxious hasn’t changed. That’s as constant as the stars. There’s a weird kind of comfort in that. “Five minutes and then I’m pushing you off to go wash your soul jizz off me.”

“Like you’ve never had jizz on you before, you whiny baby. Twenty minutes.”

“Five.”

“You’re a lousy negotiator, sweetheart. Fifteen.”

“Fine. Five minutes and one second. That’s my final offer.”

Red considers. “Ten.”

“Do you not know how final offers work?”

“Ten _and_ I get that juice box.”

Sans sighs. “Deal.”

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: Sans has a panic attack complete with dissociation and flashbacks to killing someone in Underfell.
> 
> Edited 3/3/19 to amend a little of Edge and Sans's conversation.


End file.
